Idle Hour Stories eBook

“My little woman does not ride, or read, any
more,” he said one evening, in the indulgent
tone he used towards her.

“Why, yes, I do read. Don’t you see
my little library there?”

“Yes, but it seems to me I miss something.”

He missed the litter of trashy novels he had been
wont to see.

“I told you I was learning to walk;” she
added, with a smile, “I really do walk somewhere
every day.”

“That pleases me most of all,” he said
in his cheery way, “but what will Dr. Bull think.
You know he prescribes rest and quiet.”

“I don’t care one bit; I have long since
cut his acquaintance.”

* * * *
*

The end of the year rolled round. Eleanor watched
her husband’s face with ever increasing anxiety.
One evening he sat buried in thought from which all
her endeavors could not rouse him. He did not
feel well, he said. All night he tossed and muttered.
Calculations and figures were uppermost.

He was up early, as usual, and away. Eleanor
hastened her preparations, and carefully counted her
little hoard—­the earnings of months.
Early in the afternoon she came home with the proceeds
of her last batch of type-writing, glowing with exercise,
and the happiness of contributing at least some hundreds
to meet her husband’s creditors. He was
there, lying on the sofa, pale and hopeless.
Forgetting all else, she flung herself beside him
with a sob.

“Oh! Harry, my dearest! Tell me what
it is that is killing you—­I have a right
to know.”

“It is ruin, Eleanor. I have brought you
to poverty—­you whom I would have given
my very life to make happy.”

“You are talking in riddles, Harry,” she
exclaimed, rallying from her alarm. “Am
I not the happiest woman in the world? And don’t
you see how well and strong I am?”

She coaxed the whole story from his lips. Then
with affected lightness, she said: “Is
that all? Why, you frightened me terribly; I thought
you were ill—­had caught some horrible disease
or other. See here!”

As she spoke she ran to her desk, took out her treasure,
and poured it into his hands in her impulsive fashion.

“Eleanor! What is this?” staring
like one dazed, from her radiant face to the notes
in his hands.

“This? Why, this is only your silly wife’s
laziness and selfishness in another form.”

Then her story had to be told. Their combined
efforts still fell short of the required sum, but
she triumphantly produced the deed to the Western
land. For a season there were caresses and even
tears, of mutual love and thankfulness.

“My precious wife!” he exclaimed, as he
clasped her close. “What a treasure in
you, if all the money in the world should fail!”

“But your piano!” he said, with regret
overreaching his appreciation of her sacrifice.

“Let it go,” she merrily replied.
“I could not play worth listening to—­this
you must admit. It was just an expensive, cumbersome
toy—­that’s all.”